


Superposition

by LittleMagpie



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Additional character: one large toy, Betting on Sex, Biting, Bottom Peter Lukas, Consent is Sexy, First one to the finish line loses, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Toys, Size King Elias Bouchard, Top Elias Bouchard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:53:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25626235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleMagpie/pseuds/LittleMagpie
Summary: Elias is not content with the scraps of time that Peter is willing to give him, and has an idea on how to negotiate for more.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas
Comments: 6
Kudos: 129





	Superposition

Peter had only been back for hours and already, Elias could see in him the pull of silence and sea and solitude that meant this homecoming would be brief. He watched Peter’s hands fidgeting, fingers curling to palm and opening again, and he  _ knew  _ it would be cold with emotional distance even if Peter’s knee was still warm beneath the table, wedged against Elias’ own. 

He sipped his wine, its heady tannic smoothness filling his mouth and washing away some of the bitter pang of disappointment. He wanted to say something, watching that affable empty smile, watching the fog drift across the pupils of Peter’s eyes, and Elias set his wine glass down a little harder than he’d intended onto the neatly smoothed tablecloth on his dining room table. A tiny rill of scarlet liquid lapped over the edge, and Elias almost swore as he dabbed it with his napkin. “Peter, you aren’t even paying attention,” he said after a moment, his tones clipped and quiet. “Am I boring you?” He couldn’t help the petty displeasure in his tone, the way his head tipped to the side and the dainty earring with its little emerald Eye brushed his shoulder.

He watched Peter’s gaze focus again, watched the curve of smile on that pleasant mouth, and in those cool, misty eyes he saw the excuses gathering. In that moment a jag of aching frustration thrust itself sideways into his belly. He knew it for what it was — love and loathing, loneliness and thwarted passion — and yet that did not make it any easier to swallow. “I’m sorry, Elias,” Peter murmured genially, and he smiled that easygoing smile. “You know how it is with me.”

“ _ Intimately _ ,” Elias broke the word in his mouth acerbically. “I’m sure you’re  _ very _ busy, then.” He picked up the neatly folded napkin and dabbed at his lips, then put it down, rising from the dining table in clipped, curt movements.

The soft, frosty sigh that escaped Peter brought with it a little satisfaction, but not much. “Sit down, Elias,” he said, and there was some steel in his tone this time behind the charm. “I am here, after all; do you want to spoil this for yourself?” His smile was as cool as the rest of him, calm, almost sweet — but Elias knew better.

“Perhaps,” he allowed. After all, if he pushed, it would have the opposite effect of what he wanted; Elias could almost feel the cold, incisive laughter behind the thinner-than-usual veneer of Peter’s charm. It was like trying to hold onto fog -- you couldn’t. And yet he always found himself doing it, grasping at loose edges like he could convince Peter to stay. “I have a wager for you,” he heard himself saying, and it surprised Elias himself as much as he imagined it might have surprised Peter. It was impulsive, and yet, he could see the way that level gaze sharpened. Elias sometimes thought Peter loved gambling more than he loved --

It didn’t matter, as Peter leaned forward toward him suddenly, his attention all for Elias in that moment. “What kind of wager, then, love?” For a moment Elias hated him, the surge of bile in his chest acute and intense -- he was a fool, wasn’t he, soft for this cold creature with his pale eyes and his big gentle hands, and the eternal distance between them like a choreographed dance, carefully orchestrated for the maximum amount of fucking  _ pining _ that could be extracted from him -- and then the immensity of it subsided again, the bitterness moving with tectonic slowness under the fascination.

“It’s just a  _ little _ game,” Elias said softly, tipping his head and smiling his most disarming smile, calculating just how much he needed to soften the set of his brows to be perceived in exactly the way he wanted. “Frankly, Peter, I want you.” He relished the brief flare of heat in those cool, distant eyes, the way the charmingly empty smile curved just a fraction more in the well-tended beard. “But these things are always more fun if you raise the stakes just a touch, don’t you think?” He picked up his wine glass in one hand and drained it in one go, feeling the warm hazy swim of the two prior helpings in the inner workings of his ears, and then smiled again, this time artless and charming. “I have something to show you. Will you follow me?”

Peter rose from behind the table with perfect smoothness. For a man of his height and breadth, he had an easy grace that spoke more than Peter would have liked of his noble upbringing. He was too large to be self-effacing or unobtrusive without the help of the Lonely, but it was something Elias admired about him -- elegance without spareness -- and despite himself as Peter rounded the table to follow him, he found himself staring. It was easy to be angry at him for perceived neglect, but for Elias, anger often had a way of melting down along the core of his body to settle somewhere low in his belly. He was prone to riding this anger like the edge of arousal for days, caging it there and fueling himself with it until it could be released.

Elias didn’t speak as he swept out of the dining room, just expecting Peter to follow. He could feel those eyes on his back like a cold wind up his spine, and the effect it had was the opposite of chilling. He mounted the stairs up to the bedroom at a pace that was measured and neat only by virtue of his self-control; he wanted to run, to be chased, to be pinned and devoured in little cold bites -- 

But instead, he kept his steps calm and even, and opened the door to his bedroom. The sounds of his steps were blunted then by carpet as he turned and faced Peter. The captain’s eyes were steady on him, and Peter stopped short at a distance that should have felt like too far away, one hand on the doorknob. “What’s this about, Elias?” he asked, and one grey brow arched as Elias knelt at the foot of the bed, lifting up the impractical ruffle and slipping a groping hand under to find a small box, deeper than it was wide. He braced himself, grasping the edge of it as he slid it towards him on the carpet, fingers caressing the flat surface like an old, familiar lover. He knew the contents of this box as well as he knew Peter, after all -- perhaps he knew it better. Rising from his knees, he brought it with him, weighing it in both hands with a smile that looked easier and more confident than it felt.

The box was made of a dark, glossy varnished wood, the rich grain smoothed by hand, the clasp of it set prettily in the front with an enameled eye in perfect, detailed miniature. “I propose,” Elias said, holding the box in both hands gingerly, “a game in which I try very hard to make you cum first for me.” His smile turned wicked, melting-sweet around the edges. “I know, normally I want you in me, but I want to see you come undone for me while I can  _ think _ , darling.” He watched Peter’s mind try to take this in, and then, when he opened his mouth to object, Elias thumbed the clasp of the box open, and swung open the lid. It eased open on smooth and soundless hinges, baring the primly-folded green velvet inside.

The occupant of the box lay nestled in thick, soft padding, its curves thick in gleaming glass that magnified the folds of pressed velvet beneath it like moss. “While I’m inside you,” Elias said simply, “this will be in me. So, if you think about it, I’ll have a head start, since we’ll have to get it in me first.” Peter’s mouth closed, and his brows rose as he approached now, amusement in his gaze as he reached out to touch the smooth, unblemished surface of the toy.

“Are you sure, Elias? It’s  _ cold _ ,” Peter said, chuckling. “And large. Are you sure that’ll fit in you?” There was an edge of wickedness in his tone, of almost-sweet mockery as he dipped fingers into the box to lift it out, admiring the heft and chill of the plug and turning it over in his fingers, running a thumb along it to the tip and drawing Elias’ gaze. It was unadorned, but it had clearly been expensive; there was no defect in it, one perfect smooth bulge of colorless glass that even looked large in Peter’s big hand as he tested the base in his fingers. “Ah, wait. I believe I  _ can _ imagine it in you, now. I bet your hungry hole just swallows it up, doesn’t it?” He said these words in that soft, bland, charming tone that told Elias that he was just a little uncomfortable with the idea of the whole thing.

“Yes,” Elias said, stretching the word out softly on the vowel, leaning into Peter, and taking a step forward, though color came into his cheeks as he shook his curls back from his face to look up at his husband with shameless directness. “Do you want to hear about how I fill myself up with it cold and writhe on it when you’re away, until the glass warms and I can finish?” He knew he’d won the small battle when he watched Peter’s pupils widen and heard the soft intake of breath. Peter’s cold hands tightened on the toy. “Or would you rather discuss the terms of the wager?”

“If I win,” Peter said, voice roughened with sudden lust, “if you finish first. I’m going to leave this in you, tie you down, and wash my hands of you for the night.” He took the case from Elias and snapped it shut crisply, still holding the plug in one hand as he dropped the empty box onto the low table that contained Elias’ dressing things, making his comb and jewelry case clatter in protest. “And if you win?”

Electric heat flooded down Elias’ spine as he watched the sea-change of Peter’s demeanor from fog curling on a flat and glassy sea to the sudden gathering of storm clouds. It was a profound thing, to push the man he loved stumble-stammering and angry over the edge of that careful composure he kept between himself and the world. So rarely did he manage it, and he knew he’d pay later -- but gods above and all the little wriggling creatures below, he loved to see real heat in Peter’s gaze and not just placid indulgence. “If I win,” he said, slowly, savoring the moment, “then you stay.” He said it boldly, tipping his chin up as if to dare Peter -- or the One Alone itself -- to disagree.

“A week,” Peter said, reaching out and gripping Elias’ jaw in one hand, thick fingers inescapable beneath his chin. “If you win, I’ll give you a week.” Elias’ handsome features twisted in anger, and as he opened his mouth to argue, but Peter’s voice was quiet and implacable when he said, “if you ask more, I will leave you to your toys and your little games all on your own.”

Fury and despair and anger all at once welled up in Elias’ chest, shame, bargaining, and he looked up at Peter’s face and saw nothing there, only stone and desire in his frost-grey gaze, only the certainty that he meant exactly what he’d said. A week. Without this, less -- but how much less? How many days had he bought with his impulsive wager, or how many had he lost?

He wanted to snarl, to protest, but instead he swallowed it without comment, and watched the heat in Peter’s gaze increase as he marshaled his features to quiet, his cat-green eyes narrowed and burning with humiliated heat. “A week,” he said, and as if in saying it he had slipped Peter’s leash from its hook, suddenly Elias found himself borne back, pinned against the broad footboard of the bed by the sudden surge of Peter against him. The toy bounced onto the bed as Peter’s hands closed on the footboard, hemming Elias in, and suddenly the captain’s mouth was on his, slanting with sudden, cold violence against his own. Elias raised his hands, carding fingers into the soft, well-cared-for beard, sliding back to grip Peter’s pale hair.

The kiss was a battle -- Peter’s mouth with its cool tongue tasting of wine and distance, and Elias tangling his own into it with urgent, hungry need, demanding, as if he’d climb inside Peter and set himself alight there, and in doing so make Peter into a beacon he could See anywhere on earth or sea, right into the foggy depths of the Forsaken. Elias may have been small in comparison to Peter, but he pulled greedily at his lover’s hair, eliciting hot little snarls of pain and drawing him down until he did not have to stand on his toes to get the angle he wanted, body against body, until he had to break to gasp in a long, hoarse breath and Peter swore in one sharp rasp. 

His hands slipped under Elias’ arse and lifted him, hauling him bodily onto the bed where he sprawled gracelessly as he was spilled across the covers. Elias’ hands dropped to the buttons of his vest, and he yowled like a scalded cat as Peter’s hands fell on the lapels of the garment and  _ pulled _ . Buttons scattered in every direction, lost forever among the sheets or under the bed or in some forgotten corner of the bedroom, and Peter’s handsome mouth curved in a wicked smirk. “I’m sorry,” he said, utterly without apology in his tone, and he laughed as the embroidered fabric opened in a wounded slither over the immaculate white silk of Elias’ shirt. “I’ll have it repaired.”

“Don’t you dare touch this shirt,” Elias said hoarsely as he quickly undid the buttons, then pushed his way back upright despite Peter kneeling between his thighs. He grasped at Peter’s buttons, too, undoing them and giving the tailored fabric a respite from covering that broad chest, and when the crisp grey curls that wisped sparsely over Peter’s breast were revealed, he allowed himself to nuzzle into them, drawing in a lungful of the scent of him. It was something tantalizing, something to hold in his knowledge for the next dark and lonesome night, something cool and spicy and perfectly masculine, and when both shirts had been shoved off their shoulders, Elias writhed back on the bed to evade Peter’s searching hands. “Don’t think you can win the bet by default,” he said, as sharply as he could manage, knowing intimately what he looked like right now -- a man only barely better than slight, with disordered auburn curls going grey, kiss-bitten lips, and his green eyes too sharp with knowledge to be called  _ pretty _ , his chest bared and breathless in the center of his too-large bed. When Peter huffed, Elias knew he’d been right to worry.

“Wretched little man,” came Peter’s fond drawl, “how do you intend to prepare yourself for that monster without help?” He gestured to the toy, and Elias turned his gaze on it, reaching out to slide it across the covers to himself with a soft, scornful scoff.

“Do you think I have help with it ordinarily?” he asked primly, and then relented, letting his legs relax so Peter’s hands could creep up between them, cool palms sliding up over his rumpled slacks. “I did promise I would have a bit of a handicap, though, so…” He gestured to the impractical little jar of lubricant on the bedside table, chuckling softly. One big hand continued up between Elias’ thighs and for a moment, his calm melted away as Peter’s palm cradled his groin and found him there wanting already. Elias indulged himself with several little lazy rocks of his hips as he undid the fly of his trousers, and then lifted his hips, wordlessly appealing to Peter to strip away the cloth between them. He obliged.

Nudity felt better, and beneath Peter’s gaze, Elias felt his cock fully hardening, curving prettily up between his thighs. Had it not been for the wager, he’d have arched, showing off, writhing until Peter couldn’t bear not to touch -- but now he had a single-minded, arrow-pointed pursuit. Peter returned with the lubricant after a moment, and after giving himself a moment to breathe, Elias took the jar from Peter’s hands. “I want to watch,” Peter said, and then half a heartbeat later, looked deeply mortified at what he’d said. “Don’t take that out of context, wretched man.”

“Don’t worry, darling,” Elias sighed, almost purring with smugness as he unscrewed the lid of the jar. The scent of the lubricant inside was faintly herbal, and it was clear it was well-used as he tipped some into his palm, showing the glossy inside of the jar half-emptied. “I won’t tell if you won’t.” He was in a much better mood -- always was, when he was riding the high of arousal -- and he smoothed lubricant over three dainty fingers, ensuring they were coated as he shifted to get his knees under him. Finally, he arched his back, pushed his hand down behind him, and there was a moment of intense focus on the handsome face. His expression shifted, hot and slow; there was first a sudden barely-perceptible tightening around the eyes, and then they unfocused, a short gasp escaping him, smoothing into a sound of hot pleasure. The position put him on display, his body arched, shoulders drawn back and all of him one sleek line of man, broken only by the glimmer of silver at his nipples and the hot red flush of his cock. “You just -- stay right there and watch,” he said, breathless with effort, turning his gaze on Peter, pinning him in place. “Don’t you dare -- hah --  _ nn _ \-- don’t you dare get impatient!”

“I have never been impatient,” Peter ground out softly, but Elias could see the restraint in his frame, knew the ache of his cock still trapped in his trousers, and found himself very gratified indeed to know this was his doing. He’d done this to his husband, and was continuing to do so as he bit back a cry of sensation and stuffed the smallest finger on his hand inside himself alongside the others. His thighs and belly trembled spasmodically with the effort of keeping himself upright in the position he’d chosen, and he worked his fingers in and out of himself with as much thoroughness as he could manage before pulling them out and leaving himself stretched and empty, his breath burning in his throat as he panted. There was something irresistible about Peter’s gaze on him as he paused long enough to clean his fingers with a tissue like a fastidious cat, and he found himself lingering over it until a low, frustrated growl escaped Peter. Elias tipped his head and laughed.

“Manners, darling,” he hummed, mock-sweetly, and then moved to reposition himself, reaching for the glass plug where the plush softness of his duvet was crushed to the mattress under the heavy cold weight of it. “You must be  _ very _ eager to have me in you if you can’t even wait for me to hold up my end of the bargain.” He was gratified by the flush creeping into Peter’s cheeks, the way his husband’s jaw tightened, his generous lips thinning into a pale line between moustache and beard. Still, it gave him enough breathing room to get himself into position to take the toy. It was always a bit of a struggle -- he could prepare himself all he wanted, but there was always a moment of uncertainty to get the widest part inside him, and tonight would be no different, even with Peter’s (impatient no matter what he might claim) gaze on him as he braced the plug’s broad base beneath him and sank down onto it, impaling himself by agonizingly slow degrees. 

The first couple of inches went easily, sliding into his well-prepared hole and spreading Elias’ body around it, and beyond that he was more careful; it was just a matter of steady pressure, but patience was harder than he wanted to admit. The stretch was exquisite, and he could  _ feel _ Peter’s eyes on him, feel the building frustration emanating off his husband as he rocked himself slowly down onto the toy, working his way through the spasms of sweet protest. When he was sure he wouldn’t need more time, more fingers to get it the rest of the way in, Elias turned his eyes up and met Peter’s, smug feline gold-green locked against grey the exact shade of a stormy sea, and he sank down the last of the way onto the plug, feeling the cold, deep weight of it settle inside him as his hole closed around the inner curve of the base. 

He held his composure for a long few moments, and had managed to make it almost silently except, as he pivoted his hips forward, the weight shifted and rested heavy against his prostate, and he couldn’t bite back the lewd little grunting gasp. Precum drooled quite suddenly from the tip of his cock in a thick, glossy bead, and he grinned, pleasure-drunk, up at Peter. He noted with relish the working of his husband’s throat, the way he swallowed hard, and a fine shudder worked its way up through him. It was cold, and it made him want to shiver, his body’s inner heat leaching away into the heavy glass and steadying him. As aroused as he was right now, he couldn’t have cum if he’d have wanted to, not until the thing took on a more lifelike warmth.

“Are you satisfied?” Peter bit out, but Elias could hear the arousal in his voice, the lush, hot  _ want _ beneath it, and he was half-satisfied with Knowing this all on its own.

“Oh, Peter,” Elias thrummed, leaning forward on his knees and crawling toward him, “I am  _ never _ satisfied, darling.” He found himself face to face with Peter’s groin, bulging in a taut ridge against the crotch of his trousers, and raised his hands to undo the button and slide the zipper down. Behind it, the delicious jut of Peter’s cock waited wrapped in cotton knit, and Elias palmed his way down the length of it. “So  _ hard _ ,” he said, voice brightening with delight as he watched, in the mirrors, Peter’s hands tremble at his sides. Should he touch? Should he wait? The thwarted agony of letting the connection slide away must have been delicious for the Forsaken, and Peter such a sweet fool for letting it feed so freely on him. Elias tilted his head, running the point of his nose up the underside of that cloth-covered arousal until he reached the head, where a small spreading patch of wet had already plastered the fabric against the slit at the tip. “Peter,” Elias murmured, gently circling that little wet patch with the pad of one thumb, “undress for me.” He was smiling, watching Peter’s expression war with itself, lust with the need for distance, and then finally Peter let out a shuddering breath and stepped back.

“Fine,” he said, sounding as if he’d had the wind knocked out of him, and Elias relished it, almost as much as he enjoyed watching Peter slide fingers under the open waistband of his pants and peel them down over his hips. The elastic of his underwear caught on his cock for a moment, stretching, and then his cock sprang back up, swollen and stiff and, as far as Elias was concerned, utterly desirable. Still, he was already quite full, which helped, and his fascination with it was much closer to something academic at the moment -- a tool, a weakness, something to be turned to his own purposes. Peter stepped out of shoes and trousers and soon, he stood nude in front of his husband, tall and fair and always so cool to the touch, his jaw set and his expression tightly restrained.

Elias rose from the bed, and the chilly fullness inside him made his stride change as he took a couple careful steps toward Peter, smiling up at him. There was a certain sway in his hips, a closing of his stride to keep the plug secure, and that in and of itself made him feel warm and lazy. “Are you going to be alright, darling?” They had done this before in part; Peter was not unfamiliar with taking Elias inside him, but he could see how acute the pull of isolation was, taste the sea-bitter fog, the tension in his husband’s posture. It made the Eye, an ever-pulsing presence behind his own, savor it even more deeply when Peter licked his lips, turned his gaze to Elias, and nodded once, a jerk of chin to chest and little else. “You’re afraid you’ll lose, aren’t you?”

“Not afraid,” Peter said, squinting with annoyance. “It is a possibility, though.” Elias’ hands were on him already, touching, guiding, warm and ravenous fingertips along cool skin as he gently turned Peter, walking him back until the backs of Peter’s knees touched the edge of the mattress, and Elias placed a warm, gentle kiss on his cheek.

“Down for me, love,” Elias instructed, and Peter did not fight him as Elias’ palm planted over his heartbeat, pushed him gently down into a seat on the edge of the bed, and then, bearing into his broadness, to lie down. Peter reached out one long arm to capture a pillow, positioning the thick and sturdy bolster behind his head and shoulders for comfort’s sake. This left his feet on the floor, and his hips thrust up, cock presented, by the firm ridge at the edge of the mattress. 

“Oh, this  _ is _ a lovely view, isn’t it?” Elias murmured almost reverently, standing between those parted legs, stroking warm palms up the broad sturdy thighs to feel the rasp of crisp hairs there, thumbing the tender spot between thigh and hip on either side to make Peter hitch, ever so slightly. He lavished attention across Peter’s thighs and belly for long minutes with hands and fingers, and twice, Elias bent to latch his mouth onto a carefully selected spot, tonguing and sucking there until hot red bruising bloomed beneath the skin -- but never once did he touch Peter’s cock, which jerked and twitched with need, a thin line of precum drooling from the tip of it to his belly. 

“You’re so good, so patient,” he praised Peter, lips moving against his skin, “so magnificent like this. I don’t think you appreciate how often I dream of this.” He sought with lips and teeth again, found a smooth spot to worry, and Peter’s body surged to tautness as Elias very slowly and deliberately left a neat crescent of small, red-bruised tooth-shaped dips in the hollow of one shoulder, only to set to soothing it with kisses and laps and soft, breathless praise.

By the time Elias had finished, every inch of his torso and thighs had been touched or kissed or marked, and Peter was panting through his nose, his cheeks flushed hot beneath his beard. His control had frayed, but even in this extremity he had not resisted Elias as his husband covered him with avid attention, drinking in his reactions and  _ watching _ him always -- every moment, unblinking. He would never admit that it was arousing, a sensation simultaneously dearly uncomfortable and oddly easy to associate with his husband. “All right?” Elias asked with absolute fondness in his voice, making sure Peter met his gaze and nodded consent.

“All right,” Peter said back with a gruff and hazy tone to his voice, though his head was spinning with sensation and his skin burned with the need for distance, the call of the Lonely writhing beneath. He was flushed warm red but his skin felt cold, exposed to the lucid, penetrative light that wrapped around Elias’ bedroom, bouncing from mirror to portrait to the sheen of fine fabric, except for the places where his pulse beat trapped beneath bites and kisses and love-nips. “You’ve had — you’ve had your fun, Elias, now do it.”

This drew a hoarse and bitten chuckle from Elias. He too was feeling the weight of time, the glass plug moving inside him with every step and reach and squirm, the unyielding slick surface pressing into every tender place he had inside. He was making an awful mess of himself, but he kept hold of his fragile composure to reach for the jar of lubricant. It was immensely gratifying to see Peter move on his own, hitching himself back further into the bed and crumpling the blankets beneath him, to lift one leg up and out of the way, a heel braced in the tangled sheets. This exposed the underside of his arse, the firm curve of cheek, and between them, the hole Elias ached to thrust into.

He took his time, then, coating the fingers of one hand, watching Peter’s anticipation build. Elias was not a large man, and all of him was in proportion — it would not take long to prepare his husband, but he intended to take his time. He settled, kneeling to keep his arse off the sheets, between Peter’s thighs, and with a shushing little hum he lowered his hand down between them. Fingertips pressed between Peter’s cheeks, then found the opening there, circling, testing, teasing. 

“This is mine, isn’t it?” Elias asked, lightly, playfully, as he felt Peter shudder beneath him. “I know you’ll never admit it, but you never deny it, either.” One slender finger slid inside, and Elias watched — from his eyes and the mirrors and the paintings on the wall, from the glittering emerald Eye that hung from one ear, in a hundred different gazes — as Peter struggled, fought with his body, and won, relaxing slowly around the intrusion of the first finger. The first was always the hardest for him to take, as Elias curled it inside him, stroking, spreading the slick. “There now, look at you.” His cat-green gaze was alight, and he could not stop his hips from moving, writhing just slightly, his own desire surging to a fever pitch. Still, no matter what he did or how badly he wanted, he would not rush this — he would  _ not _ — and he made certain that Peter was ready before he slid in a second finger.

This time Peter was louder — a gasp, a shudder, and the sound of a moan broken to shards in his throat -- and Elias moaned with him in sympathy, pressing his fingers in deep on one hand as the other braced against Peter’s thigh, feeling him tense and shudder and move. “So good,” Elias soothed hoarsely, his own desire straining his patience, as he worked those two fingers in and out. It was a familiar ritual -- and he knew when it was over moments later, as Peter growled a frustrated noise. “My, my,” he teased, “ready already?” It was ridiculous to ask -- he knew as well as Peter did that neither of them was going to last long. Slipping his fingers out of his husband, Elias reached for the jar of lubricant again, a little breathless himself, hands shaking and his knees loose as he dipped more of the slickness onto his fingers. This was where he could win or lose this bet, but god, as he moved to cover Peter, barely coming up to his breastbone, Elias  _ almost _ didn’t care.

It would have been easy not to care about the wager, feeling some of the tension in Peter ease out of him as Elias reached down between them, as he wrapped his messy fingers around his own cock and haphazardly coated it, guiding it toward that prepared hole. He hesitated for only a breath, pressing himself against Peter, and then carefully, he began to push inside.

It was almost too good, especially the sound that escaped Peter, the hot, short rasp of need. Elias was too wrapped up in his own sensations to think much, but he raised his gaze to fully appreciate Peter below him, the furrow of the pale brow, the working of his throat beneath his beard, the hot flush that had seeped across his chest in arousal. He raised his slicked hand to wrap around Peter’s cock, stroking it once firmly, root to tip, then finally sheathed himself slowly and fully in him, snug and hot and slick with lubricant. He felt Peter buck beneath him, the hot clench and the sudden, undeniable connection that even Peter could not shake, and he could have come then and there. The toy inside him had stolen enough of his body heat that he was shivering, and the glass was blood-hot, an unyielding heaviness that threatened, always, to slip out of his body if he lost control. It pulled against that inner ring of muscle, and he clenched helplessly around it, every moment a struggle between out and in that felt like being fucked in miniature, stretched wide and slick and accommodating. “Peter,” he heard himself vocalizing as if he were outside himself, breathless, inarticulate. “ _ Peter _ \--”

“You’d better not --  _ nnh _ \-- forget our wager,” Peter grated out, Elias’ hand still moving on his cock as he began to move.

“I promise,” Elias almost whimpered, “I have thought of nothing but -- ah!” He was trying to set a rhythm, but doing so was nearly impossible without fucking himself just as hard -- each thrust made the plug bounce against the spot inside him that sent starbursts of pleasure into the dark space behind his vision. He braced himself as best he could, and ground through his body’s desire to melt against Peter -- but that wouldn’t win him the bet, and god, the thought of losing was almost unbearable. Peter had certainly meant exactly what he said about his winning conditions and as fun as the thought was, he did not want to let Peter go a moment sooner than the Lonely demanded. 

His rhythm picked up, quickening with the sudden inspiration, and soon between his clumsy thrusts and Peter moving, they’d found a blissful balance of give and take that had Elias moaning and Peter’s breath coming heavy, his noises bitten off into fractured, yearning little fragments of noise that Elias drank down like a man dying of thirst. Peter’s hands started in the sheets, crumpling the fabric, and then rose to grasp the top of the pillow above his head, his body tensing and shuddering as his control wavered, trembled, and shattered all at once.

In the end, neither could be sure who came first in the moment. Peter was the first to choke out a cry of sudden inevitable pleasure, and Elias’ own graceless yelp came hard on the heels of it as he shoved in as deep as he could get, grinding helplessly against Peter’s arse. His hands were on Peter’s thighs, gripping them with long, surprisingly strong fingers, pressing further bruises into the pale flesh as his spine arched in a desperate straining bow. He could not help gasping out Peter’s name in relief and triumph as he came, greedy for the shudder and clench around him and relishing the sight of Peter’s spending as it spattered up onto his belly and chest.

In the aftermath, Elias slipped out of Peter with a breathless tiny sigh of lingering pleasure. He came to rest a moment later with his full weight atop Peter’s belly, his head pillowed on his husband’s chest and his expression relaxed. The mess of their coupling was smeared wet and sticky between their bodies as they panted in lazy, airless syncopation, both basking in their separate, sweet afterglow.

Once he had recovered somewhat, Peter lifted his head to look at Elias, who was still perched atop him like a lazy cat, still full of glass plug and savoring the precious, oversensitized ache of it. His auburn head was rumpled, tilted to one side, and a thoroughly exhausted look of smug, lush satisfaction had settled in on Elias’ features behind the lingering flush of pleasure. He had his fingers laced, and his chin rested on them, amidst the sparse forest of pale hairs on Peter’s broad chest. He had been so tense, so taut, so full of yearning for empty sky and loveless sea, but looking into the lucent, feline green of Elias’ eyes, he felt it run out of his pleasantly-weary bones like water. It left behind only the warm, familiar comfort of his long-suffering affection for the ludicrous creature laid all along the length of him, skin to skin, all but glowing with contentment and complacency like the sun in glory.

“Three weeks,” Peter relented, his voice rough, before his slow smile was startled into a laugh by Elias’ delighted cackle, and a sweet, insatiable kiss drowned both.


End file.
